Phoenix

Last week, I recorded a podcast episode for Daughters of Mormonism.  In it I talked a fair amount about a relationship I've alluded to here in past posts, and in context of that episode being aired soon (the 17th, to be exact) (Edit: link) I'd like to take the time to fill out the story.  My hope is that anyone who hears my experience will learn from it and either use that knowledge for themselves or to help someone else.  These things can and do happen everywhere, something I didn't fully realize until they happened to me..

What follows is the "abbreviated" version of my story, and the events discussed are intensely personal and sensitive.  Nearly eight years later, I still deal with many of these memories on a regular basis.  I hesitated for over a week before deciding to post.  I ask you to please be respectful of what it took for me to write this down and share it publicly.  If you don't want to read the account of an abusive relationship, you can skip this post.  There's much to say after the jump.



I moved from California to Arizona in the autumn of 2003 to attend seven months of massage school.  During my Winter/Spring semesters, I also took an evening course at the Institute of Religion in Mesa.  A month or two into the program, a new man joined us.  In spite of the small group, I didn't really interact with him until one mid-April night when we got into a conversation after class.  We ended up talking from 8:30 until 2:15 in the morning.  This became the norm over the ensuing weeks, talking after class until the early hours of morning, each conversation getting longer until the night of the end-of-semester social when we talked in the Denny's parking lot until nearly 8 AM.  We saw the sun rise and contractors begin work across the street.  During that time, we confessed mutual interest in each other, and decided to date in the few weeks I had left before graduating.

He had been baptized late the previous year prior to moving from the East Coast to the desert.  He was ten years my senior.  I found him funny, charming, articulate, and interesting.  We seemed to have similar opinions on many matters, and similar thoughts on our ideal life.  School was almost over, and I was faced with the choice of whether to stay in Arizona and pursue this new relationship or return to California to pursue my career as I had planned.  After less pondering and fewer prayers than perhaps I should have made, I decided that I would stay and see where things went.  I found a situation living with some married friends that allowed me the freedom to move home at short notice if we broke up.  On graduation night, I told him I loved him.

I know.  I know.  It was too fast, and if I had been more honest with myself, I would have acknowledged that.  My experience with relations was limited to a couple of long-distance internet boyfriends in my teens, and a handful of awkward dates to school dances.  I was young and naive--ignorant to the ways of Bluebeardian predators--I desperately wanted to get on with my life, and in my head, I was on the fast track.  I had a diploma and a career that I could pick up and put down as I wanted.  I was making good progress on resolving some health issues.  I had a boyfriend.  In my head, engagement, marriage, and a gaggle of babies could be just around the corner.  Awesome!  Okay, so he wasn't everything I'd ever thought I wanted--he had never served a mission, he wasn't a virgin, he wasn't very educated, his job wasn't that great (it was crap), and he wasn't the most attractive man I had ever seen--but I felt that I had evolved and grown and I was willing to work with what was there.  I wasn't exactly Miss America-Betty Crocker, myself, so who was I to judge?

A couple of weeks after graduation, he had been acting strangely and treating me differently.  When I pressed him for a reason, it finally came out that he had an addiction to pornography and a persistent problem with masturbation that he said he was trying to quit.

Awesome.

Somehow, I knew what the problem was before he said it, but I made him say it anyway.  It just wasn't something a proper young woman asks a man!  "Do you have a problem with self-arousal?  Are you frustrated?"  It was a punch in the face for a girl who had always been very focused on finding a virtuous man.  A big part of me wanted to say the relationship was over, call my parents, and move back to California.  However, the "too nice" side of me opposite that instinct won out.  This is the side of me that attracts the needy, damaged, co-dependent, and unhappy because I have a hard time turning them away even when doing so would be healthy.  It's the side that says, "Let me try to help you, even if it kills me."  I stayed with him.  I stayed in Arizona.  I was going to stand by him and support him, love him back to a point where maybe we could get married and I could tolerate being married to him.

Yeah.  I know.

We visited his ward together and got the glowing approval of his Bishop; my ex had followed counsel and found a faithful young woman to help him overcome his problems.  Looking back, I don't blame his Bishop for being well-intentioned; he was a good man who truly wanted to help my ex.  However, I think the idea of "finding a nice girl to help you through this" (read: drag along for the ride while you deal with the long and difficult process of trying to overcome your addiction) is severely lacking in merit, sanity, and fairness.  Whatever good intentions existed, I resent that my ex was given this advice in such a way that he then steered toward me and ultimately saw me as being responsible for keeping him on the right path.  That is guidance that needs to be reconsidered.

I had courageously, foolishly planted myself in front of the flood and challenged it to knock me over, but I had yet to realize that viler demons lurked in the shadowed parts of our relationship than his addiction.  Over the following months, I put up with so much crap.  Every couple has rough spots and elements of discord that everyone just needs to suck it up and chalk it up to the differences between people.  What I did went five miles beyond that point.  I allowed him to manipulate and oppress me, to rule over what I did virtually every day.  There was very little that I did without him from mid-June until mid-November.  I rarely hung out with my girlfriends. I barely saw my housemates.  I drove him around when his car didn't work, and paid for most of our dates out of my graduation money.  (I can't tell you how much I wish I could have that money back, and that I had done something wise with it.)  His opinions became my opinions.  My personality shrank in proximity to him.  I gave him my first kiss in order to comfort and distract him as he pitched a fit over his money situation  I accepted an impromptu, ringless marriage proposal in the wake of a fight where I did not break up with him.  ("You did a great job of not dumping me!  Let's get married and do this for the rest of our lives.") I bought my own engagement ring.  For $10 at the "Always 50% off the marked price!" silver store in the mall.  Because he couldn't afford it, himself.

He made a prison of the personal modesty I prized.  Because his pornography addiction was so extreme, he insisted that I cover myself as much as possible.  If my clothes slipped, he would point it out and get on my case.  It became my responsibility to completely control what he could and could not potentially see of me in the most mundane situations.  I had never aspired to even the slightest in immodest dress.  The tank tops under a semi-sheer button-down that I favored in the Arizona summer were as "scandalous" as I got.  Because of my body shape, the top of my underwear could be seen where my pants would gap at the waist, but it was never intentional and I did my best to prevent it.  It wasn't enough.  I had to do more or he made it my fault if he got turned on.  This play for control would escalate over time until it reached a criminal level toward the end of the relationship.

Throughout the entire summer were dozens of arguments, including one very dramatic fight held in my car on the way back from the Grand Canyon.  When I pulled over at a rest stop, he stomped ff like a child, saying I should just leave him there and he would walk the 60 miles back to civilization.  It was tempting but I was a good girl, and chased after him like he wanted, apologized, and got him back in the car. On this same trip, he confessed that he didn't fully trust me to be professional if I had a man on my massage table.  He felt that there was a risk I would be tempted to give out a "happy ending" if a male client propositioned me.  Thanks, honey.

Through all of this, he kept me from leaving by playing on my sympathy, laying guilt trips, and making shows of gratitude.  He needed me.  He loved me.  He couldn't overcome his problems without my support.  He wrote me poems and lists of things he loved about me.  He bought flowers.  He shared music.  Once he had proposed, he acted as if it was all but a binding contract.  He held it over my head like a guillotine, prepared to drop the blade on my integrity.  Mostly, though, it was that "too nice" side that made me stay.  I thought I could love him into changing if I just tried a little harder.  I felt like the only person who was strong and sane enough to stand beside him and be his support.  I thought I could save him somehow.  Foolish girl.

In spite of all this, I did gain a few good things that summer .  It was during those horrible weeks of torture from his emotional and spiritual abuse that I learned to go to my Heavenly Father and put my troubles on him.  I took solace in hours spent walking the grounds of the Mesa temple, praying and pouring out my heart to God, begging for relief or endurance.  I pleaded for my fiance, that he would be able to overcome his challenges.  I dug for answers, mining the depths of my spirit for the strength to make it work.  God became my comforter, my friend, my confidant and counselor.  My faith deepened in the face of my adversity, and for longer than I should have, I withstood the flood.  It was a burden I shouldered of my own will without really asking if it was right, but He was always there for me while we both waited for me to wake up.

Exactly a year after I left home, we left Arizona on our way back up to northern California.  My car broke down just a few miles shy of the border.  In retrospect, it was almost like God saying, "Leave him there."  Of course I didn't.  We had to pull my car behind the moving truck the next day to get it home, and it was in the cab of that truck that he first attempted to sexually assault me.  My Dad was driving, I was perched on a chair between the bucket seats--yeah, that was totally safe--while my ex took the passenger seat.  It was late in the evening and we were supposed to be resting.  We had a blanket covering us and he was leaning his head against my shoulder.  I was half-asleep when I realized that he was very carefully attempting to unzip my pants and put his hand inside.

While I'm sitting.  Next to.  My Father.  Trying to sleep.

(Twenty-one year old me was an idiot.  Bella Swan level stupid.  I was not nearly as alarmed as I should have been by the fact that the man I planned to marry was basically attempting to finger rape me, and that trip would not be the last time.  The man had a pair of brass ones of a size usually reserved for sports equipment.)

I swatted his hand away, quietly told him to stop, and zipped my pants back up.  He had managed to get them about halfway open.  That was bad enough and it should have been the end but he tried it again, and I was done sleeping for the rest of the trip.

When we got home, we decided to leave most of the unpacking for the next morning except for the bed I'd need to sleep on that night.  My parents had a travel trailer that would be his home until he found an apartment.  That trailer happened to be parked 15 feet from my basement bedroom.  About 7:30 the next morning, I awoke to the sound of tapping on my window.  It was him.  He told me I needed to cover my windows and the doorway to my bedroom (we had removed the panel to move in the bed) because he had walked around the house that morning and discovered all the ways that he could see into my room.  Once again, his criminally invasive Peeping Tom behavior was my responsibility to control.  I was the one who had to trap myself behind blankets and curtains and turn my bedroom into a dark hole because he was a pervert.  I did it, because it was supposed to help him, even though this wouldn't be the only or worst incidence.

The modesty prison closed in around me after the move.  The abuse and oppression got worse as we were trying to find him a job and an apartment.  (I will spare you further detailing on this point; I think you get the idea by now.)  We began working with the Bishop in my home ward.  I was still determined to work it out, still determined to find a way to get him worthy enough to go to the temple.  Looking back, I cannot fathom why I maintained any desire to stick around this guy after everything he had done to me, except that I wanted him to change, and I wanted to be the reason.

Things were so bad by that time that he began to bring out my violent side.

By the end of October, the situation had deteriorated to a state of fight or flight, and my violent side began to emerge.  I had anger issues as a child and teen, but as I matured I learned to control of my temper.  By adulthood, I was primarily laid back and easy going.  It takes a lot to rattle my cage, and if I reach that point something is grossly dysfunctional.  We had reached that point.  There was the time I came within half a second of decking him during a choir practice.  (We weren't in the practice at the time; whatever he was having a fit about kept us outside.)  Another time I accidentally smacked him with some flapping fringe during a heated argument.   To this he responded by grabbing my wrist, balling up my hand, and forcing me to punch him repeatedly in the forehead while yelling, "Why don't you just hit me?!  I know you want to!"  And there was the time I should have slapped him.  We had been talking in the kitchen when my shirt rose to expose a sliver of midriff while I was putting away dishes.  I went to the laundry room with him tagging behind, creepily begging me to show him again.  When I said no, he grabbed my shirt and yanked it up before skittering away with a stupid grin.  I honestly regret not slapping him for that.  If I could go back and change it, I would.  Finally came the day we were "talking" with my parents about some of our issues, and I launched into a ten-minute full-volume scream fest as all my rage boiled over.  My parents didn't stop me.  I'm certain they were glad to see it.  The flood had deepened and I was reaching my breaking point.

Our Arizona Bishop had mentioned several times that in his experience, couples never treat each other better than when they are engaged.  When you add the stresses of marriage and sharing a life, if there was any weakness in the relationship, it would only increase.  Bad behavior would not be magically cured by marriage.  He also said the an engagement is not a marriage; it is not a binding contract.  It is conditional and can be broken without any detriment.  That's why it's not marriage.  I didn't fully absorb his meaning at the time, even the day I had to have my housemate ride with me to pick up my ex after work because "I wasn't safe alone with him."  Mind you, it was my ex who made the suggestion that I bring him along.  My ex then proceeded to get angry that I had gone through with it.  I could tell that my friend wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face.  None of these things clicked in my head until we were meeting with our Bishop here in California.  I had brought up the issue of his peeping (the window covers didn't keep him out; they only made him more sneaky) and through that discussion he said something along the lines of, "If you were to ask me for a recommend to be sealed right now, I could not recommend you.  I could not recommend that you get married at all."  Suddenly, it wasn't just me, and the crap I was going through.  Someone I admired and respected was coming out to say "This is a bad choice."

It was reinforced by a conversation with my mother on the grounds of the Oakland temple.  I realized that it couldn't work.  I finally woke up.  I saw.  I understood.  I was heartbroken, but I knew there was no other way.  It was reconfirmed when he and I couldn't even make the same trip without another episode of zipper shenanigans, and a fight on the temple grounds.

The end came a week and a half before Thanksgiving.  I did a massage in the morning, and after my client left, I muddled around the house, enjoying a little quiet time to myself.  He came knocking in the house before he was supposed to, asked me outside, and started in on 'how could I do that to him, it wasn't fair, he was out there waiting to come in and see me, and I had just left him alone.'  I was done.  There wasn't enough love or tolerance left in me to put up with his control anymore.  I broke the engagement, stormed back into the house, and slammed the door.  He continued yelling at me through the door as I was collapsed on the floor, sobbing.  My Mom tried to tell him to leave.  He refused.  I jumped up, threw the door open and thrust myself right in his face.

"GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!!!"

I kept the ring.

It took three days to finally get him off the property and back to the East Coast.  In that time, he used my phone in order to call at least one friend back in Arizona and try to turn them against me.  He called his ex to try and get her to talk me back into the relationship.  He asked if he could come back someday if he changed.  I wasn't having it.  I wasn't having him.  I was awake, I was in pain, but I was not going to back down.

I learned my lessons the hard way, the way I wish no one had to learn.  As I mentioned at the beginning, this story and trauma it represents are things that I still deal with almost daily.  Usually it's a fleeting thought, a memory, an acknowledgment that it happened.  It's there.  It's part of who I am.  I think I've healed from most of it.  At the very least, I've learned to live with the scars.  Even speaking about it isn't as hard as it used to be, and I carry less fear in my heart

I descended into Hell and rose up stronger for it, though I had been battered and burnt.  This is my deepest wound, the injury I carry with me in my journey, and one reason I fight.  These things should not happen.  I share them in the hope that my story strengthens and enlightens someone facing their own realities of abuse.  Notwithstanding elements that I've left out in the interest of brevity and privacy, what I've written is the unvarnished truth and I don't put this out to the world lightly.  It's a painful story to tell and an intimidating one to put forth, but if my words teach other women that they should never let anyone treat them as Less Than, it will be worthwhile.  If nothing else, writing, rereading, and refining this post has been a healing experience for me.  I don't feel so alone with it anymore.

Never let anyone--not even yourself--tell you that you are Less Than.